The Magnificent Maxwell
by Kineil D. Wicks
Summary: Wilson receives an invitation from his mysterious neighbor and decides to investigate...
1. The Invitation

**I was playing _Don't Starve_ whilst Mom was watching _The Great Gatsby,_ and this happened.**

**_Don't_**** _Starve_ © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**_The Great Gatsby_**** © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

* * *

Wilson Percival Higgsbury stood in front of the mirror and straightened his outfit for the tenth or so time.

His intention, upon accepting the invitation from his cousin and her husband, was to come to New York, settle in a little house on West Egg, and focus on his stocks job, with his science experiments on the side. In reality, he had had quite a bit of difficulty in his side pursuits, what with his cousin pulling him across the sound and his incredibly noisy neighbor on this side.

Indeed, nearly every night since he had arrived, his neighbor had thrown a raucous party, a compendium of cacophony that kept Wilson up nights. He had been tempted to go over there and file a complaint, but gave it up as too much trouble.

He was surprised, then, when he received a letter from next door. And within the letter—a formal invitation to a party Friday night.

He had done his level best to ignore it, but finally gave in to scientific curiosity. Which was why he was standing in front of his mirror this Friday night, trying to decide if he should spruce up further, before finally settling on his dapper best. He snatched up his top hat and his invitation and headed next door.

The minute Wilson strode through the gates, he was swept up in the noisy mess. Ragtime and jazz fought for dominance, people danced and drank, and Wilson was left with a severe case of disorientation. He resolved to find his host, thank him, and be on his way.

An hour later, that proved easier said than done. He had met a multitude of interesting people, from a strongman to a mime to a librarian (that one had surprised him, considering the level of noise there), and now he was trying to carry on a conversation with a lovely young lady who had given her name as Willow Burnshigh.

The conversation was more an exercise in bellowing. "I said, I received an invitation—"

"What?" Willow asked again.

Wilson breathed in. At some point he had gained a drink, and he gestured with the glass. "I _said_, I received an invitation, but I can't seem to find our host."

"You probably won't," Willow told him, a shade below bellowing. "No one gets invited to these parties—they just show up."

Wilson stared as she drifted off to talk with twin blondes, who had introduced themselves as Wendy and Abigail. Wilson shook his head and tried again elsewhere.

Later saw no more success. He ducked around two people dressed in elaborate pine-tree costumes, a man juggling axes, and a boy dressed up as a spider before he finally found a place of relative safety and quiet, nestled in the curve of one of the expansive stairwells. He took a steadying swig of his drink, resolving to find his way out of this crazy place, without even _bothering_ with the host—

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson looked up to see a man, slightly older than himself, smirking down from his perch on the steps. He had a cigar in his hand, making Wilson glad he was down there away from the smoke.

"Well, it's a little loud," Wilson called.

"That's what makes a party," the man called back, coming down the steps to converse. Wilson drifted over. "No one likes quiet intimate parties—they always drift to the loud obnoxious ones that they can lose themselves in."

Wilson's desire to leave evaporated as he conversed with this person. After a while, he couldn't help but ask the question that had been weighing on him since he had arrived. "Excuse me," he asked, as they were walking up a flight of steps. "I don't suppose you'd know—I received an invitation to this party, but I can't find the host. I don't suppose you know this Maxwell character, do you?"

"I do," the man said, his higher position on the stairs adding to his height. "I know him quite intimately."

"Really?" Wilson asked, brightening. "I don't suppose you could point him out for me."

"You're looking at him, pal," the man said. "_I'm_ Maxwell."

It wasn't until much later that Wilson found he was the only one to ever receive an invitation.


	2. The Luncheon

**Due to ****_The Great Gatsby_**** being on again, here's chapter 2.**

**_Don't _****_Starve_**** © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**_The Great Gatsby_**** © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

It was nearly a week later that Wilson received another invitation from Maxwell, this time for lunch in the city. Upon Wilson's arrival on the estate, Maxwell bundled him into a powerful convertible and zoomed off.

During that week, Wilson had heard a lot about Maxwell, too much for it to all be true. Wilson preferred to stay out of it, and had hoped there were no more reasons to visit the estate. But a direct invitation would have been rude to refuse.

At the moment, Wilson was regretting his decision. Maxwell drove like a maniac, and only seemed half-focused on driving—the other half was focused on carrying on a conversation with Wilson.

"So, pal, what did you think of the party last night?"

"It was fine," Wilson replied, voice rising an octave as Maxwell narrowly missed a car.

"You should come to another one—you meet the most interesting people there. There are some interesting people where we're going for lunch, come to think of it."

Wilson merely nodded, not trusting a scream not to fly out instead. They blew by a billboard with a pair of glasses on them, and Wilson squinched his eyes shut, hoping the motion sickness would pass.

"I suppose you've heard a lot about me," Maxwell continued.

"A bit," Wilson noised through his teeth. Calm breaths, calm….

"Well let me tell you then—alleviate your fears.

"Firstly, I've never murdered a person in my life. A rabbit, once, but that was an accident. I served in the War, got all the medals—here's one," to which Maxwell handed a small medal to Wilson. "Travelled the world, made my fortune, and now I'm here." Maxwell glanced at him. "So what's your story, pal? What brings you to West Egg?"

"My cousin," Wilson said, strained. Maxwell hadn't slowed once he arrived at the city. "There's a policeman following you, by the way."

Maxwell glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled over. Wilson resisted bolting from the car right then and there.

But after a short conversation, the police officer let them go on their way.

"Friend of the commissioner," Maxwell explained.

* * *

The restaurant was basement level, surprisingly posh, in a speakeasy sort of way.

"That's Leif over there," Maxwell said, directing him as the waiter took them to "his usual table." "Over there is Mr. Pegkeng. And up there, that dancer, her name is Miss Ginger, but everyone calls her the Spider Queen. You should see her dance."

"Mmm," Wilson noised, entranced. Maxwell sat him down before sitting down himself. A waiter came over and deposited a few drinks. Another came over and told him he had a few messages to attend to.

"I have to go," Maxwell told him. "But don't worry pal—I've got someone else coming over to fill the lunch conversation."

Wilson watched him go, wondering who he had in mind.

"Oh, Mr. Wilson! So _you're_ who Maxwell had in mind."

Wilson looked up to see Willow Burnshigh standing over him. He scrambled to get her a seat.

Wilson had to admit, Miss Willow was frightening, but in an intriguing way, he felt—she was certainly different from other women he had met. He watched as she played with the fire from the table candle, the waiter delivering their food and drink unnoticed.

"So," she said, finally taking her attention away from the fire to pick at her food—she had braised eggplant, pirogues, and honeyed nuggets, Wilson noted; he looked down to see he had some sort of meat stew. "I suppose Maxwell told you all about himself."

"He did," Wilson said, suddenly regretting not paying more attention—threat of imminent death tended to distract him. "But I feel like I don't know him any better now than I did before."

"I found out I didn't know him at all," Willow said, taking a bite of pirogue. "He talked to me the other night, told me the whole thing—why he's been having all these parties, why you're so important—"

"What?" Wilson asked, startled. "Willow, what's going on?"

"It's scandalous, absolutely scandalous, and you and I will be in the thick of it! Isn't it wonderful?"

_"Willow!"_ Wilson snapped, eliciting silence from the nearby tables. He waited until conversation resumed before he continued, in a controlled hiss, "What is going on? What does this Maxwell want with me?"

Willow rolled her eyes at him, then leaned closer, the fire catching the light strangely in her eyes. "He wants you to introduce him to your cousin Charlie—invite her to tea."

Wilson blanched. "But….But she's _married."_

Willow beamed. "I know—that's what makes it so scandalous."


	3. The Apartment Flat

**I seem to have become invested in this story, and will end up writing it to its end. That means now I must mark it as incomplete, hahaha...**

**And with this chapter, it becomes a true crossover-Tom's here.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

**PS: Special thanks to Dara999 for reviewing thus far and alerting me to the fact that this uploaded funny the first time. Evil computer...**

The next day saw Wilson heading into town with his cousin Charlie's husband, Tom. They had stopped at a gas station on the way there to fill up the tank, during which time Wilson had become suspicious of Tom's behavior—especially the way the gas man's wife acted upon seeing them.

"Say, you've been awful quiet," Tom noted—making the first time that day he had noticed Wilson's silence.

"I'm thinking," Wilson said, shorter than he would have liked.

"Oh right—your 'science experiments.'"

In reality, Wilson was thinking about the conversations he had had yesterday. Ask him to ruin his cousin's marriage? Preposterous!

"So where are we going?" Wilson asked as they pulled away.

"Just to an apartment flat I rent in the city," Tom told him. "We're going to a party."

"I've been to a party," Wilson said, still distracted. "It was quite impressive."

"Yes, I've heard that the parties over in West Egg are extravagant—but you just can't trust those _nouveau_-_riche_. Best to stay on East Egg—Charlie's been asking about moving you into one of the spare rooms."

Wilson would probably do it for his cousin, but he couldn't get himself excited about living under the same roof as her husband. "What's your opinion?"

"Well, your science would have to stay where it is, but the influence would do you good. Ah, we're here."

* * *

They had walked up a flight of stairs to a gaudily appointed apartment, and within thirty minutes, Wilson had divined what Tom was up to there.

"I'm leaving," Wilson announced, standing up and heading for the door.

"Now hold on," Tom said, catching him by the arm and holding him in place; Tom's physique as a polo player meant he could do that to Wilson's willowy frame. "You're not going to spoil the party, are you?"

"I ought to," Wilson retorted, dropping his voice to an angry hiss. "You're cheating on your wife!"

"No one's getting hurt! Although you might, come to think of it."

"Good-bye, Tom," Wilson said shortly, pulling away.

He was out the door and down the hall before Tom was at the door, yelling after him.

"I hear one word of this breathed elsewhere, and so help me, _I'll make you pay, Higgsbury!"_

"Write me a check," Wilson shot back.

* * *

It was evening before Wilson had made his way back to West Egg. He had been so angry that he ended up in Battery Park before realizing he was completely lost. He only had enough taxi money to get him across the bridge, and had to hoof it the rest of the way.

As a result, he was completely exhausted by the time he arrived back to his house, to see that there was another party going on at Maxwell's.

The good news was, he had had plenty of time to make his decision. He walked through the gate with the intention of finding the host and informing him of said decision.

Unfortunately, two hours of searching provided the same results the first party had provided—he couldn't find Maxwell at all.

Wilson ducked into a side room, which proved to be a library. He wandered through a bit, soaking in the silence, despairing of finding Maxwell. He sighed, exhausted.

"_Shhh,_" a little old lady noised, glaring at him over a book and pince-nez glasses.

"Sorry," Wilson noised in an undertone. "I'm just looking for the host, Maxwell."

"I doubt you'll find him," the lady informed him, putting the book up and pulling another out. "If you ask twenty people if they've seen him, they'll give twenty different descriptions. I don't believe he exists."

Wilson considered this. The man he knew as Maxwell was certainly real, but….

Wilson shook his head and departed, aiming for the gate and home.

* * *

Wilson made his way out of the cacophonous party, rubbing his temples and staggering for his house. As soon as he found an appropriate horizontal surface, he was going to flop down on it and sleep. It had been too long a day.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson started. There was Maxwell, leaning against the oak tree in Wilson's yard and smoking a cigar.

"I was looking for you, actually," Wilson said, rubbing his eyes. He was dizzy with fatigue, but he had to have this discussion. "I thought you'd be at your party."

"I was waiting up for you," Maxwell told him, knocking some ash from his cigar. "How was your lunch with Miss Burnshigh?"

Wilson thought back on that, and how it had ended, with him running out the door, frantically hailing a taxi, with Willow tugging at his arm.

"Oh please, Mr. Wilson, you _must_ understand!" she had pleaded. "Charlie's not happy with Tom—she loves Maxwell! But he wouldn't marry her unless he had money, lots of it—" She was talking rapidly now, as a taxi pulled to the curb. "But he took too long, and word went round that he was dead, so she married Tom—but the morning of, she got a letter saying Maxwell was still alive, and _oh_, she was miserable, but it was too late, see, and—"

"Miss Willow!" Wilson snapped. "You can't expect me to break up my cousin's marriage! I won't help, and that's _final!"_

But now…now, with the revelation of what Tom was up to—their hasty departure from Chicago, Charlie's attitude at the dinner he had had with them…it all made sense now. And now….

"Say, pal, did you fall asleep on me?"

Wilson looked up, his decision made.

"I'll ask my cousin Charlie to come to tea the day after tomorrow," Wilson informed him. "I need time to mow the lawn." There was no grass to be found, but Wilson needed his sleep. "You're welcome to join us, if you're so inclined."

Maxwell's smile was visible in the dark.

"It's a date, then."


	4. The Tea Party

**By the time I post this, I'll have probably checked it fifty times to make sure it uploaded right. Evil computer...**

**And with this chapter, we finally meet Charlie. Mwaha!**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

Wilson had woken up sometime that afternoon, and after a call to his boss apologizing—"I've come down with something, won't be back in for a day or two"—he made a call to Charlie.

"Of course I'll come to tea," she had said, in that teasing voice that made every man she talked to think she only cared for him. "It's a date, then!"

Wilson hung up the phone and mused at the irony of that statement.

He spent the rest of that day tidying up his yard, debating on the wisdom of assisting in this. True, Charlie was unhappy—but was this really the best course of action?

He went to bed that night with his mind still buzzing with worry.

* * *

Wilson woke the next morning feeling very refreshed, and slightly resigned. Today was the day—time to get it out of the way, no matter what happened.

He made a pot of coffee, still in his pajamas and house robe, and then baked a little cake for the tea party—it was basic chemistry, something he was confident at. He pulled the golden brown cake from the oven and examined it happily.

"I am one heck of a scientist," he declared, taking a sip of his coffee.

He heard someone on the steps and glanced at the clock. It was much too early to be either Maxwell or Charlie—who could it be?

Wilson opened the door—

To find an entire team of people landscaping his yard.

Wilson stared at the busyness steadily transforming his yard. "Oh my…." He noised.

He heard snipping and looked over to see someone trimming the ivy that had been growing out of control on his house—the person he had heard on his porch.

Wilson took a steadying sip of his coffee. "Okay," he said, nodding. "Okay," he said again, walking back into his house.

The landscaping team had dispersed around noon, their jobs done. Wilson had made cupcakes and cookies to go with the cake, and was busy with icing when the rain started.

Wilson made a slightly disappointed noise at the sight of the rain. "Oh, H2O."

Not that he thought it was a bad omen or anything. It didn't help his icing, though—he thickened it before putting it in the bag and piping it out on the desserts.

Two-thirty saw Wilson in his dapper best, walking around his living room again and again, polishing this surface and straightening that thing, checking his icing to make sure it wasn't melting, and struggling not to make tea earlier than he needed to. He sat down on a chair by the fireplace, wringing his hands. He needed something to do, and he didn't trust himself to his tinkering in the meantime. He'd get into his work, and then he'd miss—

The doorbell.

Wilson rushed over, glad of the distraction, but wondering who it could be. It was still too early—

He pressed himself against the wall as a procession of flower-laden servants walked in and headed for his living room. He edged out the door and onto the porch, to see servants laden down with desserts and tea following the flowers, another line of servants holding umbrellas aloft to keep everything dry. And there, standing off to the side and supervising, was Maxwell. He caught sight of Wilson and grinned; Wilson was sure it was because of the dumbfounded look he must be sporting.

Maxwell crossed over to the porch, his umbrella-toting servant—Wilson was certain he had heard him referred to as Mr. Skits—following close behind.

"I heard the weatherman say the rain should be done by four," Maxwell told Wilson once he was on the porch, as though the rain had not factored into his day at all, and how dare it fall today of all days.

"Oh good," Wilson said, still focused on the procession. "I made cookies."

* * *

Wilson thought it was bad waiting for four o' clock by himself. As it turned out, waiting with Maxwell was worse.

Maxwell had his hands folded and his elbows on his knees, one foot tapping a rapid, irritated tempo on Wilson's hardwood floor. He had his ever-present cigar in his mouth, and he was giving Wilson's mantle clock a death glare. Wilson was secretly glad he wasn't looking at _him_ that way. The few times he had attempted to make conversation, he had been met with terse answers, Maxwell's eyes never leaving that clock.

At two minutes to four Maxwell stood up abruptly. The sudden change in stance startled Wilson out of his reverie.

"I'm leaving," Maxwell said shortly. "She's not coming."

"What?" Wilson asked, glancing at the clock before bolting after Maxwell. "It's not even four yet! Give her a chance!"

Maxwell was almost at the door. "Why? It's obvious no one's coming—"

"I did _not_ rig this up for you to run off at the last—"

They both froze in the hall when the crunch of driveway gravel reached their ears.

"It's her," Wilson said, or maybe it was Maxwell—Wilson's mind wasn't exactly working at the moment.

There was a light tapping at the door. Wilson snapped himself out of it with a shudder and crossed forward to the door, waving for Maxwell to go back to the living room.

Wilson answered the door, all forced cheerfulness while his insides were in turmoil. "Charlie! So glad you could make it!"

Charlie, Wilson felt, was a very beautiful woman, with the dark hair and pale skin that came from their shared side of the family. Her face could form the perfect pout, and she was doing so now.

"Of course I could make it—you made it sound like _such_ the scandalous secret. You're not in love with me, are you?" She asked, dropping that last sentence into a whisper.

Wilson tried very hard not to blush—but, as blushing was an involuntary response that he had yet to scientifically harness—failed miserably. "Well, I find your company infinitely better in the absence of Tom—you can send your driver back home, by the way; no need for him to sit there for an hour or more."

"All right," she said, smiling. Then, to her driver, "Go home, Ferdie—I'll call you if I need you. His name is Ferdie," Charlie told Wilson in all seriousness.

Wilson stood aside with the door open, unsure what to do with the information. He waved good bye to Ferdie—who didn't seem to notice—and ducked in out of the rain.

"Oh my," Charlie noised.

Wilson froze. She was looking in the living room, frozen in the hall.

Wilson forgot how to breathe. This was it, do or die—he and his actions had put her happiness in either peril or salvation.

"Oh my," Charlie repeated, walking into the living room. "What did you do, Wilson, raid a florist?"

Huh?

Wilson ran over to the living room—

To find Charlie in there by herself, examining the numerous flowers. "He _is_ in love with me," he heard her mutter.

"That's funny," Wilson said, before he could stop himself.

"What's funny?"

"Uh…." How to answer that?

There was a knocking at the front door. "I'll go get that!" Wilson blurted, grateful for the distraction. He dashed down the hall, leaving Charlie still looking bemused, and wondered who on earth could _this_ be—

He opened the door to a soaking-wet Maxwell.

It took Wilson a moment to recover. "_What are you doing?"_ he hissed. "Charlie's in there—she's waiting—"

Maxwell walked by him, reached the living room, made a ninety-degree turn, and stepped within.

The silence was deafening.


	5. The Reunion

**To be honest, this chapter and Chapter 4 were very hard to write. I don't know why.**

**And that p-class coding thing is back. What's up with that?**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

Wilson realized he had ceased to breathe in the subsequent moment. He inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves, and walked into the living room after Maxwell.

He found Maxwell and Charlie, standing there, staring at each other, both startled, like they hadn't expected each other, of all people, to be standing there in front of them.

There were nervous introductions, then the tea was served. And then came the awkward silences punctuated by even more awkward sentences. It was killing Wilson.

"I just remembered!" He announced suddenly, standing up. "I need to go to town—need to get something."

It took all of Wilson's self-control not to bolt from there, instead settling for a brisk trot. Maxwell, however, did bolt from the room. "Hold on, pal! I just remembered something I wanted to talk to you about—"

Wilson stopped at the door, hoping Charlie didn't notice. "What?" Wilson hissed.

Maxwell, meanwhile, was a nervous wreck. "This was a mistake, a terrible mistake!" he hissed.

_Oh good, I'm not the only one who thinks so,_ Wilson thought. "Don't be ridiculous," he whispered. "Charlie's just as embarrassed as you are!"

That brought Maxwell up short. "_She's_ embarrassed?" he asked, as though it had never occurred to him.

"Yes!" Wilson stressed, waving him back to the living room. "Go talk to her!"

Wilson dashed through the door before Maxwell had a chance to change his mind.

* * *

Wilson stood beneath the oak tree in his yard, mostly sheltered from the rain pouring down. He watched the puddles form in his yard, all the while wondering what he was doing. Yes, it felt _really _good to stick it to Tom like this; yes, he felt Charlie deserved a chance at happiness. But…he had no idea. He had no idea what he was doing, or why, or if he even _should_.

And worst of all, Wilson realized, he had left Charlie alone in there, with no reason or knowledge why, beyond the fact that _he_ was uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Wilson sighed. He had to go back in there.

As if to agree with his decision, it stopped raining.

Wilson sighed again, trudging his way through the puddles and back into his house.

* * *

The first thing Wilson noted when he opened the door was how quiet it was.

That worried him, he realized, especially when the door closing was so loud in comparison. He wanted to rush in there, save his cousin, but he forced himself to take measured steps to the living room.

What he saw surprised him.

Maxwell and Charlie were sitting on the couch, talking quietly, absolutely absorbed in each other. Maxwell's back was to Wilson, but Wilson could clearly see Charlie's face—she was radiant in her quiet happiness.

Wilson was tempted to walk back out, but Charlie glanced up. Wilson cleared his throat to announce his presence properly.

"It's stopped raining," he announced inanely.

There was something very dazed in the way they looked out the window to check his statement. "Oh it _has_ stopped raining. How—how wonderful," Charlie noted.

"Yes, wonderful," Maxwell said, although he wasn't looking out the window.

He stood up suddenly.

"Come along, both of you—I want to show you around my house." Maxwell addressed this last half to Charlie.

"Of course! Let me just—let me go powder my nose," Charlie said, dashing out the room. Wilson pointed to give her the direction.

"Second door on your right," he told her. He turned to Maxwell, about to say something, when something occurred to him.

"What's with that expression, pal?" Maxwell asked.

"I forgot to tidy the bathroom," Wilson groaned.

Maxwell's mouth was half-open, probably to ask him what the big deal was, when Charlie's voice drifted in.

"Wilson? What is this you have growing in your tub?"


	6. The Mansion

**Two chapters in one month—something's wrong with me.**

**And I finally got the soundtrack for ****_Don't Starve_****! Now I have to finish my schoolwork so I can play the game again—I miss Wilson! T^T**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

"That's my place, right there."

"No! You live _there?"_

The sun was shining brightly, and Wilson felt it reflected in the trio walking across Maxwell's lawn. Charlie was in the middle, her arms threaded through Maxwell's and Wilson's, her face as radiant as the afternoon sun and the bright reflections from the windows. He half-listened as Maxwell described the history of the place to Charlie, mostly taken up with a feeling of immense size and scope that he couldn't describe.

As they toured through the mansion, Wilson realized he had never seen the place empty before. In his fugue, Wilson couldn't help but think that all the guests from the parties were really there, and just hiding until they left. He could have sworn that he heard the ghost of a laugh as they left one room, but when he stuck his head back in, there was no one.

Maxwell, meanwhile, seemed to be in a cloud of his own. He was following Charlie around, as though reevaluating everything judging by her reactions. Wilson noted that for once, his cigars were absent.

Charlie seemed overwhelmed by it all, although when she burst into tears at one point, she insisted it was because of the shirts Maxwell had been showing them at the time. "I've…I've never seen such beautiful shirts." As though fabric could bring someone to tears.

As the tour continued, Wilson couldn't help but realize that everything there, the whole mansion, had been picked with Charlie in mind. It gave Wilson some indication of how largely his cousin factored in Maxwell's mind. And yet every time he reminded himself that he should be feeling badly about this, Tom and the apartment flat sprang to mind.

A second afternoon storm was rolling in, and they paused a moment by some big windows to admire the thunderheads. Mr. Skits informed Maxwell of a telephone call at one point, but Maxwell brushed it off, instead turning his attention to Charlie and pointing out the window.

"If it weren't for the fog rolling in, we could see the green light at the end of your dock."

"Really?" Charlie asked, although Wilson had the feeling she had never given her dock light any thought before. "Oh, you're right across the sound from me!"

Me, not us. Wilson wondered if perhaps she was distancing herself from the unpleasantness of her marriage, as though not thinking about it would make it so.

Something about the way Maxwell paused as they departed from the windows made Wilson feel that perhaps he had put something of Charlie into that light, and now that she was here, it was no longer anything of value.

Wilson paused and reexamined the overcast sky. It was the weather, he decided—he always got reflective when a storm rolled in.

* * *

Some organ player had been summoned, perhaps at Maxwell's behest, and was playing some swinging ragtime that echoed fantastically in the huge ballroom. Wilson and Charlie were dancing to the quick beat as Maxwell poured drinks, although he had finished that task long ago and was just simply watching Charlie.

The organ player finished one tune and went on to another. Charlie ran over and dragged Maxwell onto the dance floor.

Wilson took the opportunity to back off and observe them for a moment. It was like in his living room, when they thought they were alone.

Wilson's qualms about the day slowly evaporated. For now, at least, he felt he did the right thing.

With the ballroom empty, he was able to actually examine some of the trappings. But the more he looked, the more he realized that there was nothing truly of Maxwell around. He might have owned it, and he might have bought everything, but there was nothing that reflected Maxwell or his personality—or rather, what Wilson knew of it. His conversation with the woman in the library came back, and Wilson realized just how little he actually knew of Maxwell.

He looked back to Maxwell and Charlie, realizing the music had changed again, this time into something softer. They weren't dancing now; they were seated on a couch, chatting quietly, entirely wrapped up in each other.

Wilson raised his hand, ready to say something, changed his mind, lowered it. He quietly excused himself, departing for home.

He needed time to think, to sort out conflicting emotions, to figure out just what exactly he was doing.

Wilson sighed upon entering his home, living room still filled with flowers.

Why couldn't life be as simple as his science?


	7. The Polo Player

**And now, another chapter of ****_Days of Our—_****wait a minute….**

**For those who wonder, divorces were uncommon and frowned-upon until the latter half of the twentieth century. Hence Wilson's waffling.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

Wilson was in his backyard on a brilliant Saturday afternoon, happily tinkering with a new experiment, when the creak of his gate announced a visitor.

This was vaguely surprising, Wilson decided, as both Maxwell and Charlie had been too busy to drop in on him. That worried him. And yet the more he tried to think about it, the more his head ached. Every time that happened, he turned his attention to his science experiments.

He had gotten quite a lot of science done over the past several days.

Wilson sighed and glanced up to see who his visitor was. He was pleasantly surprised to see it was Willow.

"Maxwell said you lived next door," Willow said without preamble. "What are you doing?"

Wilson looked back at his machine, as though to remind himself of what he was tinkering with. "I'm making a rainometer," he announced finally. "It will predict potential precipitation."

"Ah," Willow said, walking over and looking at it. "I thought that was what the weatherman was for."

"Well, a few days ago the weatherman said it would be bright and sunny, and that any rain would end around four. He was wrong." Wilson frowned as he remembered that day. Agh, there was that headache again.

Willow was destined to aggravate it. Sitting down on a nearby upturned bucket, she asked about the day Wilson had been avoiding. "So how did it go?"

Wilson rubbed at his face, leaving a trail of dirt and grease behind. "Well, they met. And…_oh, my head…."_

"Are you okay?" Willow asked, concerned.

"No, I'm not okay," Wilson said, rubbing his temples. "It's just that…I don't care _how_ happy they seem, there's the issue of propriety to consider—Charlie _is_ still married to Tom, after all."

"People _do_ get divorces."

"Not proper people."

"Hey," Willow said firmly. "Would you rather have her be living in misery for the rest of her life?"

"How would _you_ know?" Wilson shot.

"I play tennis with her," Willow answered, unperturbed. "We attend the same club."

Wilson ground his teeth and played with a few loose gears. "Yes, I want her to be happy—but could she be happy with that stigma following her around?"

Willow smiled brightly. "Well, after the divorce we could always go murder someone—murder takes precedence over divorce as far as headlines go."

Wilson stared at her. "Tell me you're joking."

"Arson?"

"Miss Willow, it's bad enough I'm factoring into my cousin's potential divorce—don't talk me into committing any other crimes."

"Well then it's a bad thing I'm here," she said, adjusting her position; the bucket must have been uncomfortable, Wilson belatedly realized. "Because there's another party tonight, and _you_ are supposed to be my date. Charlie will be there too."

Wilson felt pulled headlong into a situation he had absolutely no control over.

But, as a scientist, he also felt that if he lacked the information, then he needed to obtain it.

"All right," he said finally. "Just let me get cleaned up."

* * *

Wilson was surprised, upon arriving at the party with Willow, that Tom was with Charlie.

"I didn't think Maxwell would have invited him," Wilson said to Willow in an undertone.

"He didn't," Willow hissed back; Wilson noted she was uncomfortable with the idea as well. "He must have tagged along."

Wilson was pleased to note that Tom looked distinctly uncomfortable around these _nouveau-riche_, as he had called them. So the shoe was on the other foot!

Maxwell had seemed startled as well upon seeing Tom, but after a few moments' worth of chat, he had found a way to turn it to his own amusement: by introducing Tom as "the polo player", as an afterthought after introducing Charlie.

"I don't think I want to be introduced as the polo player," Tom confided to Wilson in an undertone.

Wilson felt a rather triumphant smirk steal across his face. "Oh, I could think of a few other designations I could have him introduce you as, if you want."

Tom's expression was thunderous.

Wilson didn't care—his earlier reservations had vanished, and he was walking on air tonight. He decided he was going to find Willow and have a few dances with her.

Tom, meanwhile, was trying to convince Charlie to go home. She was refusing, Wilson noted.

"You don't mind if I dance with her a bit, do you, _pal_?" Maxwell asked.

Wilson glanced over, deciding to enjoy Tom's expression one more time. He was relenting, saying he was going over to talk to some people—

In response, Charlie took a pen and pad and tucked it into his suit pocket. "In case you need to take notes," she told him.

It was Wilson's turn to be thunderstruck. Did that mean—did Charlie—did Charlie _know_ about Tom's unfaithfulness?

He was back on solid ground, head whirling.

And of course, that was when Willow found him.

"Come on," she said, pulling him out onto the floor. "Let's dance."

* * *

Wilson found his way to a quiet patch of garden balcony a while later, requesting respite from the dancing. Willow obliged, thankfully, grabbing someone else and swinging him around a bit. Wilson couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the fellow.

"Say, pal!"

Wilson glanced over to see Maxwell and Charlie walking by him. "I'm going to go show Charlie the garden," Maxwell informed him.

Wilson felt his eyebrows furrow. Didn't he show her the gardens the other day?

Charlie filled him in. "It's a _secret_, dear—don't tell anyone."

"Ah," Wilson noised, nodding slightly. He watched them go, and reflected that once again, he was supposed to be guarding someone else's secrets.

He turned and picked something to drink off of a passing waiter's tray, trying to sort everything out in his mind. Think scientifically, he told himself as he took a sip.

"Funny thing about this Maxwell fellow."

Wilson nearly choked on his drink. Tom had come up next to him without him noticing. "Oh really?" he managed.

"Do you know that no one knows anything about him?" Tom asked.

"I could say the same about you," Wilson retorted.

"I'm almost certain he's up to no good," Tom continued, not paying him any attention.

"The same could almost be said about you—I'm certain of the fact, however."

"I'm going to do some digging on him."

"You're just sore because he keeps introducing you as _the polo player._"

Tom scowled at him. "Have you seen my wife?"

Wilson took distinct pleasure from lying to Tom's face. "No, I have _not_ seen Charlie recently," Wilson told him. _Not within the last three minutes_, he added silently.

"I'm going to do some digging on this Maxwell fellow."

"You've said that already."

"I'm going to go look for Charlie," Tom said, walking off.

"Don't forget to pay your rent!" Wilson parted cheerily, toasting him and enjoying the glare he received.

Wilson took a drink to steady his nerves.

"Hoo boy," he noised.

* * *

Wilson found Charlie later, once the party was winding down. She was sitting on the front steps, staring out across the sound.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sitting down next to her.

"Hmm?" she noised, glancing at him. "Oh, I'm all right," she said, returning her gaze to the darkness. She always seemed to come alive in the dark, Wilson noted.

He played with his fingers for a bit, not wanting to approach the subject but feeling he had to.

He was interrupted in his effort by Charlie talking again.

"We had a nice long chat in the garden."

Wilson started. "You and Maxwell?"

She nodded. "He wants me to leave Tom."

Wilson wasn't sure what to do. He was fairly certain he could provide her some information that would make it easier, but…. "And…what do you want?"

Charlie heaved a sigh. "I don't know….He wants to go back to before, but….I don't know what I want."

He thought for a moment. "Well…_I_ want you to be happy."

She smiled at him. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could snap our fingers and all this mess would be gone? You, me, and Maxwell on our own desert island. And Willow too—I've seen the way you two look at each other."

Wilson reddened a bit, prompting her to laugh. "Oh yes! You do care!" She flung her arms around him. "You two will be my own personal project—I'll fling you together in closets and spread all sorts of rumors about you!"

"I'd rather you didn't," Wilson told her, although her enthusiasm was infectious. He took a deep breath and held her away from him a bit. "Listen: what you said to Tom earlier…."

Her face fell. "Yes, I know," she said. "I know what he's like. It's why we left Chicago."

"Then why stay with him?"

Charlie gave a shuddering sigh. "I…I…."

"There you are!"

Wilson and Charlie both turned to see Tom coming down the steps towards them. "Come on—we're leaving."

"Wilson and I were having a chat," Charlie informed him.

"You can chat with him tomorrow," he said, pulling her up. "We don't need to stay here."

"You could come to _tea_ tomorrow, Charlie," Wilson said, standing. "And you could leave _the polo player_ at home," he added, with a pointed look at Tom.

"We're leaving," Tom said again, pulling Charlie along. She looked back at Wilson with an expression he couldn't decipher.

Wilson glanced around, realized that everyone else had just about left.

He went once again in search of the host.

* * *

Wilson found him loitering by the pool, picking up some odd or end every once in a while, seemingly lost in thought.

"Charlie just left," Wilson announced, raising his voice a little. "I think she had a wonderful time."

"She didn't like it."

Wilson blinked at the flat statement Maxwell had given. "Huh?"

Maxwell looked up, gestured vaguely around. "She didn't like it."

"She said you chatted in the garden," Wilson prompted.

"We did—I'm trying to convince her…." He trailed off, staring across the sound. Wilson noted the green light.

"It's not like you can erase the last eight years," Wilson informed him.

Maxwell, meanwhile, seemed to have found new resolve.

"Watch me."


	8. The Hotel Room

**Good news, folks! Updates on this should be quicker now. And for the bad news: since this follows _The Great Gatsby_'s storyline, it's going to get heavier from here on out. "But we're sorry, and promise that the next story will be full of funny bits!"—paraphrasing Dot Warner.**

**Oh, Dara—I finally found out what was growing in Wilson's tub: apparently, according to the game files, red mushtrees. The kicker is, I didn't know that at the time of writing it. *~***

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

Wilson felt an awful feeling for the next few days—nerves, he felt.

But Charlie was true to her word, and suddenly Wilson was finding himself on all sorts of excursions, every time paired up with Willow.

He was actually beginning to warm to the idea.

But no matter what, his mind kept drifting to Charlie and Maxwell—and Tom.

"You're doing it again."

Wilson glanced over at Willow, who had paused in her rowing. "What am I doing?"

"You're sighing and drifting off and thinking. We've been going in circles for the past five minutes because you stopped rowing."

Wilson glanced around, realized she was right. "It's…I…I can't shake this feeling that something horrible is going to happen—"

Willow leaned forward and kissed him.

"Now what are you thinking?"

Wilson blinked, floored. "I—I didn't think about anything just then."

She smiled. "See? Problem solved." She paddled a bit, then looked back at him when he didn't assist.

"It's not that easy, Miss Willow."

"It will be."

"Your faith in humanity is a boon to us all."

"I don't have faith in humanity—I have faith in happy endings."

"Really."

"Maxwell's got everything sorted," she said primly, paddling again. "He's got the papers all sorted out—Charlie's got to sign them, and I think Tom does too—"

"Ah, _there's_ the problem—Tom would never let her go."

"If he cared about her so much, then he should act like it."

"Instead of renting apartment flats," Wilson added without thinking.

Willow stopped rowing. "Huh?"

_Uh-oh._ "Did I say something?"

"About an apartment flat." She turned to face him better. "He _is_ cheating on her! You need to tell her!"

"I—I _tried_ once—it—it wasn't the appropriate—"

"She's waffling because she thinks he loves her! You need to _tell_ her!"

"And _when,_ pray tell, is the appropriate time?"

Willow pursed her lips, irritated at him. Wilson hoped she didn't hit him with the oar.

Her next statement made him wish she had.

"Charlie invited us to tea tomorrow at her place."

* * *

Wilson heaved a sigh as he walked up the extravagant drive of Tom's place. Not Charlie's—nothing there really made him think of Charlie. It was all Tom's overbearingness.

It was a different extravagance than Maxwell's—it was old-world, old-money, old-fashioned. Wilson personally detested the place, but put up with it for Charlie's sake.

And of course, she had invited Willow, who would pester him until he told her—

He walked into the parlor—

And felt that his day had become a million times worse.

There was Maxwell.

_In Tom's house!_

"Say, pal, you don't look so good," Maxwell observed, tilting his teacup in Wilson' direction. It was the tea set he had bought for Charlie a few Christmases ago, he noted inanely.

"It's this dreadful heat," Charlie observed, pouring Willow another cup. "No one can do anything productive in weather like this."

"I like it hot," Willow said. "I like to think things'll spontaneously combust in this sort of heat."

Wilson heard the back door slam and pictured some_one_ who would spontaneously combust upon arrival in the parlor.

Sure enough, Tom was dumbfounded upon spotting Maxwell standing in the parlor, drinking tea. Maxwell made the same observation about him that he did about Wilson, but suddenly the air was tense.

Wilson was forcibly reminded of the tea party he had hosted with Charlie and Maxwell—but there was no ducking out of the house this time. This awkwardness was more profound than before…it was like having barbed wire scraped across his nerves.

He was concerned by the fact that Charlie looked like a bundle of nerves as well. She kept fidgeting and dropping things. If it didn't kill Wilson, it would certainly kill Charlie.

"Maybe you and I should leave," he suggested to her, feeling she needed to be away from the source of her agitation for at least a few minutes.

"Yes!" Charlie exclaimed, leaping at the chance. "Yes, let's go—we could go to town! We should all go!"

That was not what Wilson had in mind, but something told him that Charlie was approaching hysteria. Best to let it go.

Tom argued the point—obviously not wanting to lose his home-field advantage, but now everyone had warmed to the idea; he had no choice but to go along.

Through some trick of Maxwell's—the man had a certain way of walking and talking that disarmed the unwary—Maxwell and Charlie ended up driving together into town in Tom's convertible, whilst Wilson and Willow were stuck with Tom as he was _being a pal and filling up the tank_ on Maxwell's car.

Wilson found himself in the back seat, making it easier to tune Tom's inane uttering out. He had bigger problems—how to get his cousin out of this unscathed. This wasn't going to end well, he just _knew_ it.

He was aware of the fact that they were at the gas station, that the gas man wasn't completely with them, that Maxwell and Charlie were speeding by happily—

That the gas man was talking about moving and taking his wife with him—

This alerted Wilson quickly. He glanced up, saw the gas man's wife looking down in horror at Tom with Willow in the front seat; glanced over, saw Tom's thunderstruck look.

Wilson was laughing as they pulled out. "What's so funny?" Tom snapped.

"The best laid plans of mice and polo players," Wilson replied, unable to resist the barb.

But as Tom sped into town, leaning into the wheel, focusing madly on Maxwell ahead of him, it occurred to Wilson that with everything falling apart around him, Tom would be willing to go to painful lengths to keep his greedy acquisitions together.

And that wouldn't end well for Charlie at all.

* * *

They found a fancy hotel with a vacant room. Wilson wondered why they had left the mansion at all.

It was actually _worse_ in the room—it was smaller, cramped, hotter, with no cross-breezes. It was a pressure cooker ready to blow. Wilson's nerves were frayed to the max.

"I heard that the world's getting hotter," Tom declared loudly as Maxwell was calling for ice. The latter shot him a glare and went back to his phone conversation. "The whole place is going to burst into flame someday."

Wilson shot a quick glance at Willow. She seemed unperturbed by the declaration.

"Like a giant…what's it called…." Tom waved a hand, heat making him more dull-witted than usual. "Pressure cooker."

"I had a pressure cooker once," Wilson declared. He belatedly realized the heat was making him say inane things, but now that they were looking at him, he had to go on. "I was cooking a ham in it once—I got distracted with a new experiment, though, forgot all about it. The whole thing exploded—I never did find that ham."

Charlie started laughing at Wilson's story, Willow joined her, and Maxwell cracked a grin—but all fell silent at Tom's look.

"And what use was that story?"

"Well, it demonstrates that pressure increases under heat until disaster is inevitable—"

"No one wants to hear your science," Tom declared, waving him off.

"And yet they're perfectly willing to hear yours," Maxwell observed, reaching into his pocket—where Wilson knew he kept his cigars—and then pausing there, as though debating the wisdom of smoking in there. He settled for smoothing his suit lapels instead.

"I'm just saying what I heard."

"Maybe you should listen more."

That feeling of dread was growing, but now there was a good reason: Tom and Maxwell were now nose to nose.

"You know what else I've heard?" Tom asked, focused on Maxwell but addressing the room. "I've heard an awful lot about _you_—you and your little side-ventures with the pharmacies—"

"Tom, _stop_," Charlie said, trying for firm but sounding too wavery at the moment to truly be effective.

Tom went on like he hadn't heard her. "Oh yes—had to go make your money illegally because you couldn't hack it—"

"Charlie asked you to stop," Maxwell told him evenly.

"And she wouldn't marry you because you were a lousy huckster street performer who didn't have two cents to rub together!"

Wilson often wondered about the term _they exploded_. To him, emotions—while volatile—were not the excessively combustible explosives that demanded the term.

His opinion changed within the space of a blink.

On Tom's last accusation, Maxwell _did_ explode into a ball of fury, grabbing Tom's lapels and running him straight back into the wall. With the expression Maxwell had just then, Wilson could fully believe the rumor that he had indeed killed a man.

"Maxwell, stop!" Charlie cried.

To Wilson's surprise, Maxwell did so, thus averting Wilson's fear of being witness to murder. Although, seeing Tom's expression, Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that the world wouldn't miss him terribly.

"See?" Tom asked, indicating Maxwell. "That's what happens when you let riffraff get above their status. Charlie, you don't love this man."

Charlie looked heartbroken and terrified. Wilson stood next to her protectively, appreciative of Willow coming up to her other side.

Maxwell took a step so he was between her and Tom. "Is that so? Well, she certainly doesn't love _you_—you uncultured swine."

"Charlie, you ought to sit down," Wilson said to her in an undertone. She looked like she was going to faint.

"_NO!"_ Charlie yelled, again making Wilson think of the description _explosive._ "I'm tired of people telling me what to do and how to feel—I need air."

"See what you've done to her?" Tom asked, taking a step forward.

"Five years of you would do that to anybody," Maxwell retorted, taking another step to block his path. "Now you listen here—"

"No! _You_ listen—"

"Here, Charlie," Wilson murmured to her, seating her down in a chair. "Put your head down—that's it. Where is that ice?" he groused, looking around. Willow, meanwhile, seemed focused on the train wreck destined to happen.

"She doesn't love you," Maxwell snapped. "She never did. She's leaving you, _pal_—we've already got the divorce papers drawn up."

Wilson was expecting Tom to look thunderstruck—he wasn't expecting him to sneer like he did.

"She never loved me, eh?" he asked. And then, as though he recalled that the person of interest was in the room, turned to Charlie.

"You _never_ loved me?" he asked, seeking clarification.

"No," Charlie said flatly, although to Wilson it sounded like it could go either direction.

"Not even that time in Detroit, when I carried you so you wouldn't get your shoes wet?"

Charlie was crumbling. Wilson could see it. "Charlie," Wilson said.

"Well?" Tom asked, with none of the softness he had affected before. It was an act, a calculated act to get her to answer the way _he_ wanted—

"Charlie, Tom's renting an apartment flat," Wilson blurted out.

Silence. Dead silence, Wilson thought.

Charlie blinked at him once, twice. It looked like maybe she was waking up from something….

And then he saw something small, thin, and fragile break in Charlie's eyes.

"Max, take me home," she said in a frail voice, looking away from them all. "Max, please."

Maxwell herded her out gently. Tom moved to intercept, but Wilson planted himself in the way.

"You just made a _big_ mistake," Tom growled.

Wilson smiled thinly. "I'm certain. And what are you going to do about it?"

Wilson's next impression was that of a fist in his face, and the floor rushing up to meet his head.

Then blackness.


	9. The Accident

**We're nearly finished, ladies and gentlemen—just a few more.**

**On an interesting side note—Wilson's pressure cooker story from the previous chapter is 100% true; it just happened to happen to my grandmother. And yes, that ham is still missing to this day.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

"Wilson? _Wilson?_ Wake up already!"

Wilson came to, vaguely aware of being on the floor with his face throbbing painfully. "What happened?" he slurred.

"Tom hit you," Willow clarified, dabbing at his face with a towel full of ice.

Ah, now he remembered. "Did he break my nose?"

"I just told you he hit you and you're worried about your _nose?_"

"I like my nose."

"No, but he blackened both eyes, if it makes you feel better."

Wilson rolled to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. It was coming back to him now….

"Where's Tom?" Wilson asked, glancing around. Ow, that hurt.

"Gone."

"He left?"

"I made him leave."

"You _made_ him?"

In response, Willow flicked her lighter. "I can be persuasive when I want to."

Wilson stared at her for a full beat before sitting up. "Ow." Something occurred to him upon seeing the ice in her hand. "Charlie. We have to get to Charlie before he does."

"Don't you think you ought to get to a doctor first? She _is_ with Maxwell."

Wilson got to his feet and lurched towards the door.

"Right now," he hissed, for talking made his head ache. "I don't trust her safety to anyone else."

* * *

The taxi driver slowed after they crossed the bridge.

"Why are we stopping?" Wilson asked, removing the ice pack from his face. It wasn't doing much for the swelling—the lights were all fuzzy.

"Some sort of accident," the taxi driver said.

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances.

Within a moment, they were out of the taxi.

"Hey! You gotta pay your fare!" the driver yelled.

They ignored him—there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Willow made a strangled noise upon arrival at the gas station. Wilson vaguely recognized it as the gas station they had stopped at—this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"It's not Charlie, is it?" Wilson asked.

"No," Willow said, gripping Wilson's arm. "It's the gas-man's wife—she looks like she was hit by a car….What's Tom doing here?"

Alerted to his presence, Wilson heard Tom's grating voice.

"I know the man who did this—his name is Maxwell—"

"Wilson," Willow warned, tugging him back.

Wilson gritted his teeth, debating.

A few minutes later, they were back in the car.

"Oh, you're back," the driver said sardonically.

Wilson ignored him, instead handing him his wallet.

"You can keep this, leather and all, if you get us to East Egg on the double," Wilson told him.

As the driver sped off, Willow asked tentatively, "East Egg?"

"Charlie," Wilson answered.

* * *

They ground to a halt outside of the mansion where Charlie lived.

"Take her home," Wilson said to the driver, indicating Willow.

"Wilson," Willow said, getting ready to follow him out.

Wilson slammed the door in her face. "Go home, Miss Willow."

Willow looked hurt, he thought, but it was hard to tell in the dark with swollen eyelids. "Wilson, Charlie's my friend."

"And she's my cousin. Good night, Miss Willow."

He hit the roof of the taxi, prompting the driver to depart.

Wilson didn't look back.

* * *

He was never quite able to articulate what had prompted him to go around the side instead of the front—perhaps it was the disaster that was the whole day—but when he did, Wilson found that he wasn't the only one there in the dark.

"_You,"_ Wilson hissed, realizing he recognized the silhouette.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good," Maxwell observed, sounding strained.

Wilson was fairly certain he was trembling with rage. "You…you…you hit that woman—and you _drove off?_" he was making half-hearted gestures now, not quite able to articulate. "You—everyone was right about you! You are the _worst_ piece of humanity I have _ever_ had the misfortune to come across! _Including_ Tom!" Maxwell winced, but Wilson continued. "_What do you have to say for yourself!"_

"I," Maxwell began. "It was dark—she just ran out, like she knew us—and sh—I reached—turned the wheel—"

His stammering—so unlike the Maxwell that Wilson was used to—made something click in Wilson's mind. "You…you weren't driving," Wilson realized.

He heard more than saw Maxwell grit his teeth. "Then…_Charlie?"_ Wilson asked, aghast.

Maxwell's head was tilted now. "She thought it would calm her nerves if she drove—and then when…it happened, she panicked—and now she's worried about Tom coming back—"

"Understandable," Wilson muttered, touching his tender face.

"So I'm staying here to make sure she's all right."

They watched the window in silence for a moment.

"I'll go in there and check on her," Wilson announced.

"With the way you look? You'll scare her to death."

Wilson ignored him.

He had to see his cousin.

* * *

But when he did, it was to see that she wasn't alone.

Charlie was on the couch, sobbing, but so was Tom, with a hand on her shoulder, speaking in low tones, looking somber whenever she happened to glance up, but with a look of triumph when she wasn't.

Wilson raised a hand, ready to rap on the doorframe, to march in there, to denounce Tom, to get his cousin to safety….

But in that moment, Tom looked up.

There was something in that moment, when they locked eyes, that gave Wilson pause. A moment that convinced Wilson that—yes, even with Charlie there—his life would be forfeit if he stepped foot in that room.

And so, in a moment he regretted, he retreated.

And when he did, he had that moment on the couch burned indelibly into his brain.

* * *

"Well?"

Wilson paused, collecting himself. "She's…she's on the couch." He hesitated. "Tom's there."

Maxwell was quiet for a beat. "I take it you didn't get a chance to talk to her."

Wilson hung his head. "No."

Again, silence, then, "Go home, pal—I'll keep an eye on things here."

"She's my cousin—"

"And you're in no fit shape to help her. Trust me, I can take it from here."

Wilson hesitated, then sat down on the bench in the garden.

"I thought I told you to leave," Maxwell said, not turning around.

Wilson gave a wan smile.

"Well, you might need a second if things go south."


	10. The Confession

**The next chapter will be the end. Don't worry—other stories will come.**

**Maxwell's backstory here is partially inspired by the story of Harry Houdini. Go check out the History Channel special—it's good.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

During that long night vigil, Maxwell told Wilson what Tom had hinted at.

He had started off life as most would, and, in his teens, had stumbled upon magic. As soon as he was able, he lit off for the big cities, planning to ply his trade in the arts, a modern-day Harry Houdini. But, as the magician William M. Carter, he had little to no luck. Of course, at the time, he was still sticking to his Midwestern morals.

But as the years went on and he progressed in the school of hard knocks, he got better at street performing and what Tom had so callously referred to as huckstering, actually getting a name for himself as the "magnificent Maxwell"—

And then he had met her.

She was a showgirl in one of the tents at the fair, a fine dancer (Wilson remembered that point in Charlie's life, when she wanted to dance on Broadway), and Maxwell had fallen in love at first sight. She played hard to get, of course, but as time went on they became more than friends….

And then he had gotten ready to buy her a ring, something nice that he could afford—

And then the enormity of everything had hit him.

He knew the lifestyle he had lived, and honestly couldn't picture getting a "real day job"—but he wasn't about to ask _her_ to live it. She deserved better—

He needed a plan.

He had met her, asked her to wait a year, he had a plan that would make sure she had the life she deserved—

And one year became two….

Then three….

And then when he had finally sent her the letter to let her know he had finally done it, it was to receive the news that she had married someone else.

He had made sure to follow her after that—and when he learned that she was leaving Chicago for East Egg, he hurried to West Egg, right across from where she was to live, made sure it was just right for her, with the parties she was sure to like, hoping she'd just walk in and they'd be able to pick things right back up….

* * *

"…And then I hear of _you_ moving in, and being her cousin, so I figured I'd get your help," Maxwell finished, as they walked back to West Egg in the early morning light. The sun wasn't quite up yet. "I suppose I should apologize for using you like that."

Wilson made a noise in the back of his throat but didn't elaborate. He was too busy thinking.

Maxwell seemed to have talked himself out, and they reached his mansion in silence.

He laughed suddenly.

"What's so funny?" Wilson asked.

"It just occurred to me—without her, I'd still be living in an apartment flat," Maxwell said, indicating the mansion.

Wilson blinked. Maybe the whole being more than the sum of its parts applied to humans as well?

"You should give that girl a call," Maxwell told him. "Don't wait like I did."

"And what are you going to do?" Wilson asked as Maxwell climbed his stairs.

Maxwell paused at the top step, one hand on the gate, thinking. "I'm going to…wait for Charlie to call," he said, shrugging as he realized what he said. "Get Mr. Skits to start draining the pool. Leaves are starting to fall." He got a cigar out and lit it, out of habit, Wilson supposed.

"You know those things are going to kill you," Wilson said.

Maxwell waved him off, smirking as he opened the gate. "Get some sleep, pal."

Wilson waved and turned, ready to go.

But he stopped.

He had something he wanted to say.

"Maxwell," he called, prompting Maxwell to glance back. "You're better than the whole lot of them."

And he turned to leave.

"Thanks…Wilson."

Wilson blinked, recognizing the first and last time Maxwell had ever referred to him by name.

And he walked away with a spring in his step, for once sharing the world opinion of Willow, and glad of what he had said.

* * *

Wilson sat at work, his mind still buzzing from Maxwell's story.

He had gone straight to work, someplace he hadn't been in a while, to receive his boss's ire. Now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at his paperwork, and realizing the wisdom of Maxwell's warning not to waste his life at a nothing job he didn't have his heart in.

He should really call Miss Willow.

But as he reached for the phone, he paused, and when he picked it up, he called a different number.

"I'd like to speak to Charlie, please," he announced when the line picked up.

"I'm sorry," the voice on the other end said. "But she and her husband have gone on an extended vacation."

Wilson blinked. What? "Well, when is she getting back?"

"I'm not sure."

"When did she leave?"

"This morning."

Wilson hung up the phone, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He dialed again.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Skits," Wilson said. "Can I speak to Maxwell?"

Mr. Skits' response was cut off by a loud noise, one that Wilson was certain he'd never forget.

His ears were ringing, and he was vaguely aware of screaming into the phone, attracting startled glances.

But it didn't matter.

Not anymore.


	11. The End

**And now, the end is near….You'll be pleased to see a nice ****_Don't Starve_**** twist to the end.**

**And on an interesting side note, the gas station attendant's name in the book is Wilson. Due to the one-Steve limit cited in TV Tropes, however, he remains nameless to keep our Wilsons straight.**

**Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment**

**Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann**

The gas station attendant had done it, apparently, convinced by Tom that Maxwell had killed his wife. He had killed himself afterward.

Wilson noted it as he noted the sparse funeral—in a fog. Willow had tried to talk to him at the graveyard, but he left without saying a word.

As time went on, he continued to distance himself from West Egg, from people, from everything except his science, until he ended up in a small town in New England. Shanter Town, the market said. Even there, he distanced himself, until he was living by himself in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Buried himself in his work.

Anything to keep from remembering that one summer.

And yet it haunted him. Like the ghost of that time had followed him wherever he went, casting a specter on his science and causing him to fail even at that.

He wanted what Maxwell had wanted—to go back to that one point in time when everything worked.

And thus when his radio spoke to him after yet another failed experiment—spoke to him in a very familiar voice—he was inclined to listen.

_"Say, pal, you don't look so good…."_


End file.
